Deductions and All That Jazz
by kittensincellos
Summary: A homeless girl named Emma has the ability to tell your life story in the amount of time it takes for you to put change in her cup; but can she possibly be Sherlock Holmes' protege?
1. Letters to My Idol

Deductions and all that Jazz

Two green eyes watched the librarian through a row of books. A small hand shifted over a biography on Isaac Newton. Three minutes until the librarian takes her lunch break. She eats for approximately seventeen minutes—nineteen if she has soup—and she makes a stop at the bathroom. Emma has watched this woman's routine for the last four days. Not for stalking purposes, of course. It's what lies on her desk that Emma truly wants. If she's caught, she'll have to find another library. She sees someone look down the isle. At a quick glance she can tell he's single, has two tabby cats, and has a kink for long haired men. He squints at her, making a face with equal parts confusion and alarm at the teenage redhead spying on the middle-aged librarian through a stack of books; she lets out a feral hiss. She hates resorting to it, but it's always worked for getting people away quickly—they probably think she'll bite. She can't help but laugh as she watches him shimmy out of the isle so fast one of the several bunny-eared romance novels drops from under his arm.

Her attention snaps back to front as she hears the squeak of an office chair. The librarian gathers her coat and purse. Damn, she's going out to lunch; never cataloged the amount of time it takes for that. No matter; she can't go any longer without looking. There has to have been a new entry by now. She let's out a small squeal at the thought that maybe _he_ responded to her e-mail.

The clack of kitten heals fades into the expanse of the lobby and Emma goes into a slight crouch as she makes her way toward the now-unoccupied desk. She gently seats herself, wary of the squeaky chair. She quickly taps the power button and scrambles to turn of the speakers. Too late, the sound of windows powering-up bellows out. She dives under the desk. Much to her relief—and subsequent embarrassment—no one else is present in the non-fiction room. She returns to her seat and finds the browser. Ugh, Internet Explorer; it will have to do. She hastily types into the address bar: . . Nothing new; he's taken down his tobacco ash analysis. Pity; she'd only gotten to tobacco ash number thirty six. She moves on to Dr. Watson's blog. Nothing new there either. Moving on to her email, she clicks on her inbox. Empty. Maybe her email was off-putting. She though that deductionsaremybitch was both whimsy, and stated her intentions, but it seems that was not the case. She decided to give her email draft a quick look through again. Maybe there was a spelling error? He hates those; and least she thinks he does.

_Dear Sherlock Homes,_

_ I believe you and I have a great deal in common. We both can read people like a cheap novel. I think I would benefit considerably from learning to fully utilize my abilities (deductions and all that jazz). It is with this in mind that I request some of your time. Perhaps I could even assist you? I'm a very resourceful person and I have no problem committing felonies! If you're interested in meeting me, please email me back as soon as possible. It may be a while before I get back to you._

_Thanks,_

_A hopeful pupil_

It's possible she came off as too desperate. She should have gone with her gut instinct to be aloof. Maybe he deduced that she was a nobody from her email. Can he do that? Is there such thing as email deductions? More research was needed. She was about to Google just that when she heard a shout from down the hall.

"Hey, what are you doing? That's private property!" the librarian screeched.

Crap, evidently it doesn't take as much time to eat out as she thought. The startled teen turned to run to her pre-planned escape route, when she was stopped by a large hand on her shoulder. She stopped herself from biting it to make a dive through his legs when she saw the taser on his belt. She'd rather not be on the receiving end of that today. Of course this library has security guards; why wouldn't it?

She was carted off to a small room in the back of the library. It consisted of a white Formica table and two fold-out chairs. Spending the next few hours in here would be _fun._

The "interrogation" began with the usual question:

"Why didn't you just use the public computers we have here?" The person asking was a different guard than the one that apprehended her. He was no doubt nursing the wounds he'd received from dragging her back here.

"The website I needed to go to is blocked on those computers." she rolled her eyes as she watched his eyebrows rise.

"It's **not** porn." she clarified.

Emma let out a sigh. She was in a rush to commit a few more felonies while the day was still young and wanted out of this room _now_. She decided to pull out her trump card early. She burst into tears. She was a practiced professional; blubbering about her parents and so-forth.

"I'm not buying that." sneered the librarian, who was seated in the corner.

"Funny, that's the same thing your boyfriend said about the engagement ring you were hoping for today." Emma snapped. "Dammit." She said as she watched the librarian pull a face that could best be described as pure rage.

Eventually, there was going to be a day when Emma could control her mouth. Today was not that day. -

Emma was released several hours later with a slap on the wrist and an invitation to never return. That was another library to cross off of her list.

She jogged a few streets over to a department store. It took her a second to recall if she'd been arrested here before. She hadn't; that was the store two streets over. She still felt silly about that one. In hindsight, it was a bad idea to use the sample computers while wearing the clothes she had just shoplifted.

Her stomach grumbled. It had been a day since her last meal, but she didn't want to chance dining and dashing again. She'd made a bit of a name for herself in that regard, and was pretty sure that every restraint in London had a Do-Not-Serve-This-Girl sign with a nice headshot of her, right in the center

She speed-walked through the teen's section, grabbing a few garments as she went. She ducked into a changing room and was soon on her way back out again. There were quite a few tricks for taking off clothes tags without being detected, and she was proud to say she knew all of them. She was pleased by how nice she looked. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, and she had on a nice pair of jeans with a dress coat. It was business casual; perfect for a meeting with London's greatest mind.

Emma ducked the toll and hopped on the tube. She walked through a farmer's market and pocketed and apple; she had just finished and tossed the core in the street when she approached the stairs of 221B Baker St.

Her palms began to sweat. She'd rehearsed her story dozens of times on the way here, but lying to Sherlock Holmes seemed like a feat even she-the master of lies-couldn't pull off. Crocodile tears were one thing, but an entire murder case? She just hoped to God she didn't get sick on him.

She took a deep breath and rapped on the door. An older woman answered the door. Emma tried to hide her shock behind a pleasant smile, but by the way the older woman gave herself a once over, she didn't do it very well.

"Are you here to see the boys?" she asked, still checking herself for something that warranted the look of shock she'd received.

"I'm sorry?" the teen replied as her mind started to panic.

Maybe they didn't actually live here, and just gave a fake address to keep away weirdos. Had this whole trip been wasted? Who was this old lady? Why did she live here? Was she someone's mother?

"Oh, sorry, I mean Mr. Holmes." the older woman said with a giggle.

"Yeah!" she yelled without thinking. "I mean, yes." she said in a more somber tone. She was here as a relative of someone recently murdered; not a fangirl.

"Go ahead up then." she said as she motioned towards the stairs.

"Boys, you have a visitor!" she called up.

The door at the top of the stairs creaked open. Of all the things she could describe that noise as, inviting was not one of them. She slowly moved up the steps, holding on to the railing to calm her shaking knees. The murmur of a conversation floated out of the door. She shimmied her way in through the space that the door that was already open, hoping to avoid drawing attention to herself. She gripped one hand on the wall to the left of the door, and dragged herself inside with what could be described as the worst covert wall-shimmy ever. When her head squeezed through, she was greeted by two men staring at her; one wearing a look of amusement and the other a look of concern for her sanity. The concerned one, Emma recognized as Dr. John Watson. He looked fatigued and had a date that ended badly the previous night. He welcomed her inside and offered her a seat after clearing the numerous pictures of corpses off of it.

"What can we help you with today?" he said as he sat down next to the tall, thin fellow Emma called her idol. Mr. Holmes' fingers were steepled together and he had yet to say a word.

"Well, I need your help solving a murder, um, obviously." she stammered out with a nervous giggle.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and got off of the couch. He strode over to the kitchen; Emma's eyes followed.

"My favorite…teacher was killed. It was mysterious and I need your help. I heard you can help; y'know, using deductions and all that jazz." her words tumbled over each other.

"Deductions are my bitch?" Mr. Holmes called over his shoulder as he filled a mug with tea.

Dr. Watson had been halfway through a drink of his own tea-and in his shock at his flatmate's sentence—let half of it dribble down his chin.

Emma regained her footing. He remembered her. Her confidence came back in full swing.

"Three minutes, I'm actually a little disappointed you didn't figure it out sooner." she said with a smirk.

"Sherlock, have I missed something?" John said, staring intently Mr. Holmes as he walked around the couch and handed her a mug of tea.

"This young woman claims she has astute powers of deduction." he stated flatly. It didn't take a consulting detecting to figure out he didn't believe her.

Dr. Watson looked over at her and tilted his head. He looked at her as if she'd stated she was abducted by aliens.

"You're American." he said.

"That's John's attempt at deduction." he said with a sideways glance at the confused doctor.

Emma suppressed a snort.

"Well, go on then. Deduce." Mr. Homles said, leaning forward.

She cracked her knuckles, and rolled her neck. She learned forward and looked directly into his eyes. Dr. Watson's look of amusement turned to alarm as she turned her attention to him. She took a deep breath and began.

"He had a date last night with someone who was just a bit too young for him. The date ended badly and wine was thrown in his face. He didn't like her that much anyway and is much more interested in your current case. He had to leave in a hurry this morning, and hasn't had a chance to relax since he got home. It wasn't for work, but rather to run around with you. You went to the farmer's market and talked to the grape seller. He yielded no leads, so you went out for Italian afterward."

"Oh God, there's two of them." His voice was muffled by his hands running over his face and through his hair.

Sherlock's face gave no emotion. There was a brief flash of fear that she'd disappointed him; but before she had the chance to mumble out an apology for her inadequacies, he said:

"Interesting. Now explain."

"What? I mean, yeah, ok. Fine." she said; incredulous about the fact that she hadn't been thrown out of the flat yet.

"Dr. Watson smells of wine, and there is a small wine stain in his hair, and since he didn't seem like an early morning drinker—or the type to pour wine in his hair—I assumed it was thrown on his head last night. You hardly seem cross enough with him to do something like that, or lose your temper at all really."

The doctor scoffed loudly and Emma only spared him a glance as she continued.

"Since his phone is across the room, I assume he isn't frantically waiting for any phone calls to be returned. I'm assuming he called after she left to apologize; people often do. The fact that he's not anticipating or anxious over it, leads me to believe he wasn't too fond of her. He has a bit of glitter on his left shoe, the kind you get at dancing clubs, not quite his cup of tea. He's a bit too old to go for that kind of night out. He's also having a bit of trouble hearing this morning, more than likely from the loud music. I can tell by the way he's staring at this chair like a dog at a steak that it's his favorite, and his back is hurting because he's had a bad nights sleep. He had to move papers when I came in so he hasn't sat in the chair yet this morning. I could smell shampoo on his coat hanging by the door, so his hair must've still been wet when he put it on. No one does that by choice when it's this cold outside. It was a stroke of luck that I recognized the sticker of the farmer's market nearby on your bunch of bananas on the counter, as I just went there. They have a different colored sticker for each day of the week, and that color means you bought them today. I could tell you two loitered around the grape stand because your shoes are stained with a tint of purple, and lastly I can still smell the Italian in the apartment."

Mr. Holmes was silent for a minute. He hummed a noise of contemplation. Dr. Watson sat with his mouth slightly agape. Well, if it all went to hell, at least she could say she'd impressed her favorite blogger.

"What is it _exactly_ that you're hopping to get from me, Ms…?" Mr. Holmes said as he stood to pace.

"Emma, just call me Emma; and I'm not sure really. I just want to be better than I am at-" she said flailing her hands about in a way she hoped showed she was referring deduction.

"Emma, how old are you?" said the doctor, finding his voice again.

"Sixteen, Dr. Watson, sir." she said, straightening her back.

"Call me John, please. Where are your pa-"

"Are you squeamish, Emma?" Mr. Holmes said, cutting John off.

"Heh, the food I've eaten has touched things that would make your hair curl." She remarked with confidence.

"You and I have something in common, then." John grumbled.

"Yes, but what about mutilated dead bodies?" the consulting detective continued.

"SHERLOCK!" John cried in horror.

"What? If she wants to accompany me to crime scenes, I need to be sure she can handle it. I though _you_, of all people John, would appreciate my carefulness."

Emma squealed in delight. She and Sherlock Holmes at a crime scene, _solving murders_!

"Sherlock, we can't just bring a child to a crime scene!"

"Hey, I'm not a child!" she protested, but her voice was lost in their argument.

"Why not? I was sneaking into morgues at her age." he stated, genuinely confused at his flatmate's anger.

"Yes, but you're-" he trailed off and simply gestured at Sherlock, somehow hoping fate would finish the sentence for him.

"A psychopath?" he said, pulling a slight pout.

"No, no. Just. Hell, I don't know… _you._" He turned to Emma saying, "Pardon my language."

Emma rolled her eyes. Yes, at the age of sixteen, he expected her to be aghast at bad language. She took a deep breath and focused on her own thoughts, drowning out the apologizing John was doing to Mr. Holmes. For a genius, he seemed a bit touchy.

"If you two are done playing Punch and Judy, I'd like to get a word in here please." she stated, not really expecting to be heard. Both men turned their attention to her.

"I- I'm not really sure what assistance I can offer, but I'm great at pick-pocketing and I can sneak into places unseen… most of the time anyway." Emma could see from the look John gave her that she hadn't helped her case at all.

"Emily-"

"Emma." both she and Mr. Holmes corrected in unison.

"_Emma,_ where are your parents? I mean, aren't they probably worried about you?" John said with that condescending tilt of the head that adults always did.

Emma didn't just hate that question, she **despised **it. She wanted to make that question manifest itself and bash its head into the wall. She wanted to hold it underwater until it went limp. She held on to the material of her nice, and stolen, pants until her knuckles were white.

"FINE. Forget it, it was a stupid idea coming here. I'm not being taken seriously here, that much is obvious. I hope you all have had a right good laugh at my expense. Have a nice day, sorry to have taken up your time."

She stormed down the stairs and forced down the lump forming in her throat. She ignored the stinging in her eyes and ducked into the first alley she came across. She squatted against the wall, and let one small sob escape. It was her own fault. She'd spent the last year building Sherlock Holmes such a high pedestal to sit on, there was no way he could ever really live up to her expectations. What was she hoping for? Some kind of Orphan-Annie story? The truth of the matter was, she was a skinny sixteen year old street urchin, with no high school education, and the ability to tell if people were right or left-handed by looking at their shoe laces. Where was that going to get her? Emma would be lucky if she got a job waiting tables. Hell, she would be _happy_ if she got a job waiting tables. At least then she'd have a reliable meal source. Her stomach grumbled in agreement at this prospect. It was only a matter of time before she wasn't legally a minor any more, and she'd have to face serious jail-time for all the shoplifting she committed on a daily basis.

She wiped her face and looked for a suitable place to lean against the wall in a fetal position for the night. The sound of dress shoes clicked down the alley way, and a tall figure in a long black coat strode toward her. He leaned against the wall next to her and looked up at the moon.

"How long have you been homeless?" he said searching his pockets for, presumably, a pack of cigarettes, and cursed at John under his breath.

"Awhile. Since I lived in the US." Emma said as she rested her chin on her knees. She tried playing it off as nonchalance, but it truth she was cold. She suppressed a shiver.

"You managed to earn enough money on your own to earn a ticket to London? Impressive."

"Yeah, _earn _a ticket… I actually just pretended to be a foreign ambassador's daughter. The airline stewards were so stupid it was awe-inspiring."

"Even more impressive." he said with a small but earnest smile. "I was homeless for a short time, as well."

"I'm assuming it has something to do with your ex-cocaine addiction?" she said, nonplussed. Mr. Holmes winced.

"Sorry, that was rude of me. I have a bad habit of accidentally bringing up deep-dark secrets."

"Yes, pesky things, those." he said watching his breath curl in licks of steam in the night air.

They sat in silence for awhile. The emptyness was like a silent exchange of pained pasts. A mutual understanding of pain. The unspoken bond of something unspeakable. Emma turned to look up at Mr. Holmes. His eyes showed he was somewhere miles away from a cold alley in London. His brows furrowed and his mouth twitched.

Suddenly, he was walking with purpose out of the alleyway.

"Wait, where are you going Mr. Holmes?" she called out.

"Call me Sherlock, and were going back inside. Do try to keep up. I can't have my pupil sleeping outside, now can I?" he shouted over his shoulder.

A wide smile spread over her face. It hadn't been there in years, and it slide into place like a glove on a hand. Her chest filled with bubbles and a warmth spread through her body. Suddenly, everything didn't seem so bad. After all, she was a student of Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Of Memories New and Old

Consciousness was usually rather rude to Emma, but this morning, it came in and snuggled next to her. It felt like a hug, and smelled of lemon cleaner. She refused to open her eyes. She was back in America, and it was a warm spring morning. Clean, white laundry danced on the breeze in the yard and the quiet clattering of green branches hanging from a weeping willow whispered to her. She flexed her toes and dug them into the fluff of the comforter. Her favorite part of these daydreams was when _she_ appeared. Those times were few and far-between. She'd lost many of the details of _her._ What was left, Emma held onto as hard as she could. Little things like the dirt ground into the buckles on _her_ shoes. _Her_ crystal earrings that, when she stood in the light just right, sent little rainbows skittering across the floor. Emma used to dance in them. She'd reach out her hands and grab for them; she suspected she would to the exact same today.

But just as soon as the memory came, it was be replaced by a much more vivid one. It was another warm spring day, but it was humid; the kind of day where you could hear the noise of bare feet peeling off of the wood floor with each step. She was running- running as fast as she could. Sweat stung as it dripped into her eyes. Turn this corner, duck under here, open this door. It was never any use, any second now her scalp would burn from being held back by her hair. A large hand would wrap around her neck and push her face to the sticky floor. Her eyes would scan left calling out for someone who never came. A pale hand, limp, lay on the floor. A neutral expression adorned on _her _face.

Emma felt bile rising in the back of her throat. She quickly sat up and swung her legs over the side of the couch. She planted her feet firmly on the cold floor. She let a shiver course through her and goosebumps made themselves known on her legs.

She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and remembered where she was. No one appeared to be up yet. She enjoyed the silence as she folded up the three large blankets placed on her last night. Mrs. Hudson just kept pulling them out of various closets and coming up the stairs to pile them on the couch. Emma had never seen someone so keen to bury her alive in fabric.

Sherlock had introduced her to the kind old woman after Emma's unpleasant exit the previous night. He hadn't asked the land-lady for the blankets; so much as order her to retrieve them. John seemed wary of letting Emma stay the night. Probably worried she'd try to nick some things while they were sleeping. As a matter of fact, Emma wasn't quite sure why she had no desire to.

Mrs. Hudson brought her up a small dinner before she went to sleep; a sandwich and a bowl of fruit slices. It wasn't much, according to her, but to Emma, it was like Christmas and her birthday had shacked up and this was their delicious love-child. With a full belly, she had no problems falling asleep in a stranger's flat.

Emma stood and decided to explore what she could while the flat's inhabitants were unconscious. She traced her finger along the top of the fireplace. She gathered that one of the two flat mates seriously detested mail by the way someone had slain a dozen envelopes on the mantel with a letter opener. The flat was littered with papers and beakers seemed to have multiplied like bunnies, occupying every surface available to them. She made the mistake of smelling the least toxic-looking beaker of strange liquid. Her nose and lungs burned and she was sure she'd lost her vision for a few seconds.

"I wouldn't recommend doing that again, unless you would enjoy wearing breathing apparatus in your old age." came a baritone voice from the kitchen.

Emma let out a small yelp and almost fell over a coffee table. Sherlock was already dressed in a black, nicely-pressed suit and in the process of putting a kettle on.

"Where's Dr. Watson?" she said, trying to regain her composure.

"He left earlier for _the clinic._" Sherlock said, practically spitting out the last two words.

"Oh! That's right." She saw Sherlock peering at her out of the corner of his eye.

"You read his blog, then?" he said, sounding bored.

"Oh, yes! I've read every entry twice; and the wa-" she drifted off mid sentence as she noticed Sherlock had come the closest she'd ever seen to someone physically looking down their nose at her.

"I mean, its okay I suppose." she said shrugging; remembering what she'd told herself about being aloof.

She sat down on the couch, and fidgeted with her wrinkled jacket in silence until the kettle whistled. Sherlock walked into the room, and sat himself in an armchair.

"What are you doing?" he said in a soft, but stern voice.

"Nothing." she said, she said checking underneath her for something she might be sitting on to cause such a reaction.

"Exactly. If you want to be completely accurate in your observations, you must first _observe._" he said, his expression remaining mute. Emma couldn't read his face at all, and it unnerved her.

"Never focus on yourself in a situation, until you have focused on all that's around you."

Emma sat up straighter and nodded. Apparently they had already begun a lesson.

"Never neglect the environment you're in. Objects can tell you just as much as people can; and they are much less likely to insist on demonstrating their ignorance." He said, muttering the last half to himself.

"I want you to sit here and thoroughly observe every item in this room from where you're sitting." and with that he snapped a newspaper from the table to his face.

She stared at the area of the newspaper that used to be Sherlock's face, unsure, before she realized he was serious. She rotated herself on the couch, but had only moved a few inches when he reprimanded her:

"No turning, only move your neck. In a normal setting, you must be able to observe a room without having to twirl around."

She snapped forward again; and, upon deciding she would start with what was closest to her and work her way around clockwise, began inspecting the door to her immediate left.

A full forty minutes passed without Sherlock so much as looking up from his paper. In fact, he hadn't even turned a page since he started reading. Every time she announced she was done, he never said a word. When this yielded no results, Emma simply began looking over the room again. At the end of her thirty-fourth time, she was sure he had nodded off, and leaned forward to get up and check. As soon as the couch groaned with her shifting weight, the newspaper snapped down again.

"So, what did you see?" he asked expectantly.

"Well, I saw a lot of things." she said raising an eyebrow. Was she supposed to find something in particular? She didn't really expect her to tell him _everything,_ did he?

"So tell me." he said, intertwining his fingers in front of his face.

_Alright,_ Emma thought, _you asked for it._ Sherlock sat patiently and listened intently as she went around the room, saying all the things she noticed about the various objects in the flat. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, only flicking his eyes up to her when she said something he found interesting or stupid—she really had no idea. When she hesitated or was unsure if she should go on, he offered an encouraging "And?" or "What else?"

A few hours of this passed; until she was interrupted-in the middle of her speculation as to whether the painting lying against the far-right wall was a gift or something he brought in himself-by the loud rumble of her stomach. She went on, and fully intended on ignoring it as she usually did, when he held up a hand to stop her.

"John insisted I feed you something. I'm not going to do that, but you're welcome to eat on your own accord. There's no 'food' present in the flat except bread, but you're welcome to it."

She couldn't help but find the way he made air-quotes quotes around the word "food" suspicious. He'd no doubt had an argument with John as to what actually constituted as food.

"Thank you." she said as she wandered into the kitchen to look for where exactly said bread was. The first place she looked was inside what _appeared _to be a bread bin, but was actually a home to an organ of some kind, sitting in peanut butter. She quickly closed the lid, suppressing a gag, and made a mental note not to eat any peanut butter she found in the flat. Her next stop was the fridge; her hand hesitated on the handle. With a deep breath, and eyes closed, she pulled until she heard the crackling of the door's seal. A sour smell meandered its way into her nose, and it wrinkled in response. Cracking open one eye, she saw an almost bare fridge. The shelves' only occupants were two cartons of milk, and several jam jars. She pulled open the crisper drawer and jumped back at the sight of four hands reaching upwards, fingers stuck outstretched and stiff with rigor mortis. They smelled of vinegar and –what Emma could only describe as—a faint hint of garlic.

"Don't touch the hands; you'll botch the results." he called.

She slowly eased the drawer shut again and the hands wiggled on their stumps like a macabre farewell. She saw the edge of the bread bag peering over the side from atop the fridge. She reached for it; her fingertips grazed the edge of the bag. She grumbled about her height and reached two more times until she saw a thin, pale hand grab the bag. She craned her neck to peer up into two piercing blue eyes.

"I'd like to think that what I lack longitudinally, I make up for in spunk." she deadpanned.

What he gave couldn't really be called a smile; it was more of a twitch of the mouth. He turned and strode back into the living room. She grabbed three pieces of bread and tossed it back onto the fridge. While she ate, she read some of the papers lying on the desk. They had titles like _Toxicology Report, _and _Nesting Habits of the South American Goliath-Tarantula. _She hoped to God that there wasn't one of those crawling around somewhere in the flat. When she finished stuffing her face, she turned to see Sherlock sitting in his chair again, paper in hand.

"I've altered the room. Tell me everything that's different." he said from behind his paper-shield.

"Might I ask how many things have changed?" she said cautiously.

"One hundred and forty-three."

Emma took a deep breath and ran her fingers through her hair. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

John brushed his teeth as his warmed his cold feet in the sunlight coming through the window. He was surprised he'd slept as long as he did. Normally, the screeching of a violin or the smell of some chemical burning would have awoken him by now. John thought maybe it was because of their guest staying over, but he doubted it. It was unlike Sherlock to show consideration for anyone; especially a child.

To say the doctor was confused was an understatement. John had seen Sherlock with kids before. It usually ended in tears, from parents and children alike. Yet his little person-phobic flatmate was rather insistent on her spending the night. John just hoped he didn't wake up to find him using her as a test subject; or all of their valuable belongings gone.

She seemed alright for someone who put committing felonies as a benefit of having around. From what John could tell, she was actually quite sweet. She insisted on offering John tips to help rid him of nightmares. She seemed well-educated on the subject.

He came down the stairs to a quiet flat. John could see a head protruding from the mass of blankets on the couch. Sherlock was nowhere to be found. The girl mumbled in her sleep and burrowed her face in between the back of the couch and the pillow. The doctor tiptoed down the hallway to Sherlock's room. It was open enough for John to see the consulting detecting flung diagonally over his bed. He was face down and looked similar to someone who'd suffered a nasty fall—all his limbs bent at unnatural angles. John saw the slow rise and fall of his back. He leaned against the door frame and watched Sherlock for awhile. There was something almost beautiful about seeing this high-strung, maniac, looking so harmless and relaxed. He didn't look like a man capable of telling what your father's profession was by the way you hold a cup; or a man capable of looking a murderer straight in the eye to insulting his grammar; and he certainly didn't look like a man capable of causing a kidney in a bowl to catch fire without a flame or heat source of any kind—which was just as impressive as it was alarming. Halfway down the stairs, John realized what he found so incredible about a sleeping Sherlock: at that moment they were equals. He received a strange rush from being on a level playing field with Sherlock Holmes; even if he _was _unconscious.

* * *

John checked his mobile for the fifth time in ten minutes. No news reports about a child abduction, no texts from Sherlock asking how best to give CPR to a child, and no texts from Lestrade about a girl trailing Sherlock at a crime scene. That was the best he could hope for. He just hoped to God Sherlock remembered to feed her. He slipped his mobile back into his pocket as Sarah lightly knocked on his office door.

"Hello? It's a bit of a slow day for me. Mind if I pop in for a distraction?

"I'm always happy to distract." John said as he waived his hand toward the chair across from his desk.

"You already seem to have a distraction of your own. Something wrong? Don't tell me Sherlock's decided to only speak in clicks again."

John was always impressed at Sarah's acceptance of Sherlock. She was always so understanding about his constant need to leave early or take days off; and willing to lend a sympathetic ear when Sherlock drove him up the wall. Even if a relationship was off the table, she was a great friend.

"No, no." He debated telling her about the strange girl who'd done an awkward crab-walk into their flat, but decided against it. He couldn't think of an acceptable way to say _"I have a homeless girl who likes to steal things and could tell I was having nightmares by the way I tied my shoes staying at my flat and I've left her alone with someone I'm pretty sure I saw put a spider in a child's hair before to test their reaction time."_

He decided to go with: "No, just a strange hobby Sherlock's picked up."

Sarah went on to talk about the latest news and what she'd found in a child's nose that morning. John found his eyes constantly wandering down to his phone. It took every ounce of restraint he had to only check it twicewhile she chatted away.

"Do you think Sherlock would make a good teacher?" he interrupted. Sarah was in mid sentence expressing her doubt that the receptionist actually needed a handicapped parking spot.

"What? Well, I don't know. Sure, if he could resist the urge to tell a kid what their handwriting said about their chance at college."

John simply hummed in agreement and felt that tug to pull out his phone again. Sarah watched him for a moment, and reluctantly said, "Since it's so slow today, do you want to take off early?"

That was all John needed to hear, and before he had gotten halfway through a "Thank you" he was jogging down the hallway.

* * *

When John walked in, the first two things he noticed was that nothing was on fire, and no one was dead. There were two positives already. The third thing he noticed was Sherlock and the girl sitting cross-legged adjacent to each other on the floor. She was carefully examining Sherlock's right hand; turning it over and pinching the pads of his fingers with her thumb and index finger, while Sherlock's eyes were focused on a laptop screen.

"I was able to leave work a little early today." he said, hanging up his coat, explaining his appearance to an audience of none.

Sherlock nodded in response and continued typing on John's laptop; his ability to type seemingly unhindered by the fact that only one hand was free. John was hesitant to ask what the girl was doing. Luckily, she seemed happy to offer an explanation.

"Sherlock is teaching me what to look for on a person's hands. So I can get a large amount of information from even a handshake." she said, now particularly fascinated by a scar on Sherlock's thumb.

John walked in to the kitchen to do his civic duty as an Englishman—make tea. He pushed aside a tray of hands that lay in the center of the dining table to set down a few of his patients files.

He was halfway through reading a file on an elderly woman with her third ear-infection this year, when his house-guest plopped down in the seat across from him. She was staring at the four formerly-owned appendages that lay before her. Her eyes didn't dart quickly from point-of-interest to point-of-interest like Sherlock's did when he studied something. Her eyes instead poured over every inch; her pupils making a slow journey from one edge of the whites of her eyes, to the other. Her shoulders relaxed, and she looked like someone lost in a good book. The corners of her mouth pulled into a fond smile.

"What is it?" John inquired, and immediately regretted, when he saw he'd startled her.

"This hand is my favorite." she said, motioning toward a plump hand in the right corner of the tray. Her hands were small, but her fingers were long and delicate. Dirt speckled her finger-nails, and her hands were ashen. Angry lines where her skin had cracked and bled snaked across them.

"He was a pottery maker, with three daughters, and was only married once. He liked gardening and playing the guitar." her finger traced a large scar that stretched across the entire back of the hand.

"He took in a puppy, most likely a stray, and it bit his hand- more than once actually. He kept it even though it was aggressive at first. I can see from the marks of frequent leash use on his wrist that he had it until the day he died. I wonder what kind of dog it was." And just like that, she drifted away again.

"You can use our bathroom if you want to get cleaned up." John hoped that he wasn't being rude by suggesting she should bathe, but as a doctor he couldn't ignore how unhealthily she probably lived on the street—cleanliness included.

She shifted in her seat, embarrassed.

"I don't have any clothes to change into when I get out." she said quietly.

"Borrow John's." Sherlock said stepping into the kitchen.

"I can wash your clothes and you can change back into them when they're dry." John suggested.

"Thanks; sorry I'm causing such a fuss. I know I've far over-stayed my welcome." she said fidgeting with her hands. The tips of her ears turned crimson.

"Nonsense; I invited you to stay, and I'll be the one who decides when you've overstayed your welcome." Sherlock said in a soft tone usually reserved for manipulation. It was astonishing. John hadn't seen Sherlock take to someone so fast since—well, since Sherlock had met him. He found himself smiling at the memory as he led her to the bathroom.

John was putting her crumpled clothes in the laundry when he noticed an ink-covered wool sock tied to a security tag on the inside of her jacket. He then remembered that he and Sherlock had yet to discuss the situation they were currently in. They needed to talk.

* * *

Emma sighed as she stepped into the bath. It burned her skin in that good way only baths could. She hoped Dr. Watson wouldn't mind her using some of his shampoo, but it would take all of three seconds for Sherlock to realize she'd used his own. She scrubbed at her nails as hard as she could and marveled at how nice it felt not to be getting clean in a public place. She sunk in lower until the hot water passed her nose. One could never fully relax in a pool shower.

She stayed in until her fingers pruned and the water grew cool. She dried herself off and slipped on a pair of sweat pants and a ratty t-shirt courtesy of Dr. Watson. She sat on the edge of the tub and thought over the questions she'd been too busy to ponder earlier. How long was she planning on staying? The answer to that was easy: as long as they'd let her. Would she tell them about the last three years of her life? If they asked, she wouldn't refuse. She had nothing to hide, not that it was possible to have secrets around Sherlock Holmes anyway. She avoided the large question that circled her brain. What she going to tell them about _her _and _him_? The last thing she wanted was to put Sherlock and Dr. Watson in danger, but she didn't want them to get involved either. _H_e hasn't found her in over two years, but he always does eventually. She covered her tracks well, and would continue to do so, but being found was unavoidable. She stood up and looked at the steam covered mirror. She tried to shake _his _image from her mind as she began to write.

* * *

"Sherlock," John chided, "stop changing the subject." The long figure draped over the couch continued to ignore him.

"She's not well and needs someone who can provide a proper environment for a child. We're going to have to call social services eventually. Her parents are probably looking for her."

"Her mother is deceased. Her father is more than likely deceased as well. Even if he _is_ alive, he was an abuser and she shouldn't return to his care."

"_Christ._" John ran his hands over his face.

"Sherlock, you need to understand that this isn't just some variable in an equation, or a chemical compound. This is a person; who's life we're affecting by dragging her into a world of dead bodies and assassins and—hands on the tables!"

John threw his hands up in exasperation.

"She deserves the chance to be—"

"_Normal?_" Sherlock interrupted. "Really, John? She was able to tell the mailman's sexuality by the way he lifted boxes, and parted his hair. I think that metaphorical ship set sail long ago." He turned around to face the back of the couch again. It seemed to be his favorite sulking position of late.

The topic of their argument padded out into the living room rubbing her hair on a towel.

* * *

Emma halted when she saw the look on Dr. Watson's face. It made her stomach lurch and her palms sweat. He knew. Not much-he couldn't-but he knew enough.

"Don't." she said between clenched teeth.

"What?" John said, forcing the expression she so hated further into his face.

"You look like you just watched a bunny get kicked into a puddle. I'm fine."

"Alright, but if you're not, that's ok."

But two could play the pity game.

"Oh, that's okay, is it?" she said, her voice rising. "Good; you had me genuinely worried. Hey, just to let _you_ know, if you ever need to talk about the fact that you wake up frequently in a bed of your own sick from the nightmares _you're_ having, that's okay too. Or maybe we can talk about the fact that you've contemplated suicide four times in the last three months?" Sherlock sat up in alarm. Emma had crossed a line; she'd lost control again.

"Or maybe we can talk about the fact that you tend to have a good wank thinking about Sherlock every now and then? Hmm?" she snarled.

She watched herself say these things from across the room. It was like watching a car crash. It always was when she lost her temper. She looked back and forth between the two shocked faces in front of her. Dr. Watson was rubbing his leg, and he looked like he was in physical pain. Sherlock was pale and his face was a mix of concern and confusion as he studied his flatmate. Emma ran to the bathroom and was violently ill.

She knew where her temper came from.

It was a gift from _him_.

* * *

She didn't come out of the bathroom for a good hour and a half. When she quietly crept into the living room, she expected yelling and for her clothes to be tossed down the stairs with an added: "Never come back" for good measure. Instead she found Dr. Watson typing on his laptop, and Sherlock plucking his violin strings while lost deep in thought. John looked up from his laptop and smiled at her.

"Sherlock." he called. Receiving no response, he called again. The third time with a bit more force; and the fourth time all but screaming.

Sherlock snapped his head up.

"Good, you're out. Get dressed, there's a case." he said as he sprang up from his chair.

"A murder?" Emma said, eyes lighting up.

"No, a case of blackmail. Incredibly dull. Only about a three on the scale, and that's only because the wife is faking the need to wear an eyepatch." he continued as he slipped on his ling black coat, and tied his scarf.

"It's trivial work, but you'll need to start from the bottom."

"And it's safe." John finished, putting on his coat as well.

She grabbed her neatly folded clothes from the back of the couch, and hesitated in the hallway.

"Do hurry. I'm going to go hail a taxi." Sherlock said as he strode out the door.

"He _will_ leave without you." John said with a chuckle.


	3. The Tycoon and the Tie

The chilled leather seats of the cab had just begun to warm under their body heat when they arrived at a large estate's circle driveway. They were waived in by a security guard holding an automatic weapon of some kind. Emma gasped at the sheer scale of the yard. Topiaries trimmed into the shapes of animals dotted the landscape, and fountains bubbled by the entrance.

"I'm guessing our client is anything but demure, then?" John said, rolling his eyes at the giraffe topiary as it rolled past the window.

"Yes, he's the type that takes great pleasure in displaying his wealth. I suspect Mycroft would enjoy this place. He's always been a bit on the haughty side." Sherlock said, tapping away at his phone.

He held it up for John and Emma to view a web page he'd pulled open. It was a Wikipedia page on Gregory Stiney: an extremely successful oil tycoon.

"I've heard his name in the news before." Emma said, craning her neck to read the article on the small screen around John's shoulder.

"Yes; he was recently involved in a scandal regarding the discovery that a significant portion of his profits went to a terrorist group in Jordan. He was completely innocent of course-the man can barely hide his own extramarital affair, let alone a hatred and terrorist plot against his own country—but he retreated from the public eye all the same." Sherlock said as he shifted in his seat in preparation to leave the cab. It had involved effort on all parts to fit into the cab in the first place. John and Emma may be compact, but Sherlock was not.

"Ah, that explains the heavy security then." John said motioning toward the three heavily armed men moving toward the cab doors.

One of the men opened the door for Sherlock; leaving John and Emma to shimmy across the seat. Emma quickly wiped the smudge off of the cab window—left by her pressing her hands and face against it in her initial excitement at the grandeur of the estate—with her sleeve. They were led into the house surrounded by men in suits. John clearly didn't like the almost-forced manner they were being whisked through the various rooms of the house. He had taken a military posture and the muscles in his neck strained from how tense he was. She watched his jaw tense and untense with each breath he took.

"Sherlock, why do I feel like a prisoner being led to a cell?" John said through clenched teeth.

"I'm afraid I can be of no assistance to you, John, considering I lack the ability to read and interpret others' thoughts and subconscious fears. Perhaps you should ask that useless therapist of yours—who's taken up the habit of biting her nails again, no doubt." said the consulting detective in his usual prickly manner. His hands were folded neatly behind his back and his coat whipped behind him only to hit Emma in the knees as they were herded like sheep. She'd begun to wonder if they even remembered she was here when she heard a sharp command:

"Emma, to my left please." called the flowing-coat clad man.

She hurried to his side without a word, ignoring how much she felt like a terrier by doing so. She wondered if John felt like this all the time, but she knew from the way he tied his shoes that he had a kink for being ordered anyway. Sherlock leaned toward her a bit and whispered:

"How many times have we been led in a direction opposite to where our final destination is?"

"Five." she said without hesitation.

He stiffened to his full height again. Emma learned to take his silence as approval.

After passing the eighth bathroom, they were finally led into a small office. Security stopped just outside the door and took the liberty of sealing them inside when they passed the door's threshold. Emma could see a greasy, bald head poking over the top of a black leather chair. Just like a villain out of a Bond movie she'd watched in an electronics store, he slowly swiveled the chair around to face forward.

"Bit melodramatic, isn't he?" Emma snorted, just a little too loudly. She received a reprimanding look from John.

The man fond of dramatic entrances turned to scrutinize Emma. He was rotund to say the least. His clothes strained around his fat bulges (he eats when he loses out on large business deals, which—if the mustard stains on his chair are any indication—has happened frequently of late). He wore a grey suit (purchased by his wife: age 56, curly red-head, dies hair, likes betting on ponies) and a shocking blue Hawaiian tie (picked out by his mistress: brunette, age 31, takes yoga class, one of three mistresses, suspects he has others, but has yet to bring it up). What hair he had left was combed back in a sad attempt to cover his naked scalp (he's been using hair re-growth cream; flakes of it sprinkle his collar). His shoes called to attention to the fact that he hadn't been out of his house in over a month; unshined; knots in the laces lazy, half-attempts.

"You're lucky I had the leniency to let you bring your doctor-friend here, but now you bring a _child_ with you? You're trying my patience Mr. Holmes." he said as he struggled to rise from his chair.

Emma opened her mouth to make her dislike of the title 'child' known to all, but she was stopped by a large bony hand being clapped on her shoulder.

"She's my niece—doing a career report." Sherlock said as he pulled her to his side with a hard tug. He seemed to think that forcing her to half-eat his coat would show family relation.

"She wants to be an oil entrepreneur?" Mr. Siney said, raising one eyebrow in doubt.

"You're right. You're of rather an example of rather poor quality for her to learn from." Sherlock said, reconsidering his excuse.

"Wha- How dare you—" Mr. Siney sputtered.

Taking that as her cue, Emma quickly pulled a small notepad and pen from her coat. She'd managed to swipe it from John's pocket in the cab. The cramped confines had given her plenty of opportunity. She smirked as she saw John patting his pockets. He shot her an agitated look and gave his flatmate a look of blame. She took a quick step toward the red-faced oil tycoon.

"I'm glad you came around to my way of thinking, Uncle. He's obviously much too smart to be fooled by my flimsy attempts to hide the truth." she said, kicking up the pitch of her voice to fully submerge herself into the façade.

John furrowed his brows and made a face that always seemed to successfully communicate: 'I have no idea what's going on, so I'll just sit here quietly until it's over.'

"You see Sir, I'm actually doing a report for my psychology class. The topic is the effects of victimization on the mind. When I heard through the grapevine that my dearest uncle would be aiding you—" the tycoon bristled a bit at her last sentence. She kicked herself when she recalled being told about his anxiety of knowledge about him being made public.

"—the _eaves dropping_ grapevine, that is-" she amended, "—because he would _never_ compromise your security—I took it upon myself to familiarize myself with your court case. He insisted that I not pester you with my stress-inducing questions. He was only looking out for your wellbeing." she looked over her shoulder at Sherlock, who seemed too invested in Mr. Siney's tie to notice much of anything going on around him.

"Mhm." he eventually said. Emma hoped Mr. Siney would take it as a noise of agreement rather than a noise of disinterest, which, knowing Sherlock, it probably was.

"Regardless, I would feel more comfortable if she were not present. Grace," he snapped his fingers and a brunet entered the room, "please escort this young woman to—"

"The kitchen, if you would, sir." Emma interjected.

Mr. Siney looked confused, but didn't protest her request; he waved his hand and a well-manicured hand was clamped onto Emma's shoulder. She tried to give a reassuring look to John, who looked like he was ready to act at a moment's notice. Sherlock was still deep in thought and seemed rather unfazed by Emma being pulled out of the room. She saw Sherlock open his mouth to speak before the heavy wooden doors were clapped shut behind her.

_ So much for Sherlock's "pupil" helping us. _John thought as the doors clicked shut. He knew it was a bad idea bringing her along, but going through with bad ideas seemed to be his specialty.

"So when you received the e-mail, did you respond with a death threat, or did you offer money?" Sherlock said, not breaking eye contact with the client's tie. John had no idea the consulting detective was so fascinated by tacky, floral-patterned ties.

"I don't—I would never—" Siney floundered.

Sherlock let out a theatrical sigh.

"Do skip the whole feigned-innocence bit. It will make this process go _so_ much faster."

Siney regained his composer and flopped back on his chair. The springs of the office chair screamed in protest.

"Initially, I offered money, then I resorted to—intimidation, yes." he swept a hand over the top of his head. His comb-over became mussed and the thin strands of his grey hair peeled off of his head and fell to hang limp by his ears.

John wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cringe at Siney's eagerness to use force over such a trivial matter. John went to reach for his notepad, but recalled that Emma had nicked it. Great, now he had _two_ superb pickpockets living in the flat to worry about.

"Why is it, exactly, you don't want your wife to know so badly?" John inquired.

He received a look of disbelief from Siney.

"I would've thought the answer were obvious, Dr. Watson."

"Don't mind him, the obvious are often difficult for him." Sherlock said, waving a hand of dismissal in John's direction.

Sherlock wasn't getting any tea for a week for that, the prick.

"How long did it take you to receive a response?" Sherlock folded his hands behind him; his tie-trance broken.

Siney paused for consideration. After thirty seconds, Sherlock became impatient and, with an eye-roll, wedged himself behind the desk and began clacking on the keyboard. Before Siney could properly respond, Sherlock was in Siney's e-mail, looking at the message-sent times.

"Just as I thought. I'll be in touch with you tomorrow." Sherlock said as he began to button up his coat again.

Siney wore the same similar look of confusion that John did.

"But I don't understand; don't y—"

"We'll discuss payment tomorrow." Sherlock interrupted.

"And be sure to ask your wife where her camera is."

Sherlock swung open both doors. He looked back before leaving and added:

"I wouldn't worry too much, Mr. Siney. You'll find your wife much more open to infidelity than you thought."

They made their way toward the entrance. John barely noticed when Emma fell into step beside them.

"What did you find?" Sherlock said, not looking down at her.

She held out her hand and turned it palm-up. A white sticker with a string of numbers and a bar-code was stuck in the middle.

"While two of the maids were gossiping, I had a chance to snoop around." she whispered as they passed by a pair of guards.

Sherlock nodded, and John decided if he didn't ask for an explanation, he wasn't ever going to get one.

"What's that, then?" John said, pointing to the sticker.

"It's a sticker that comes on the envelope of developed photos. I've seen it enough tourists toss the envelopes to recognize it. I knew it wasn't trash from any of the employees; the staff is much too uptight to leave their things around. They were probably unsure whether or not their boss wanted it tossed." She said as she tucked her hand back into her pocket.

"I still can't believe the Mrs. Siney managed to blackmail her husband _in the same house_ without him noticing." she giggled.

"If there's anything you should've learned by now, Emma, it's that people often fail to see what's right in front of them." Sherlock said, turning up his coat collar into the wind as they exited the house. John knew there was a hidden message in that, but he'd have to worry about that later. Now he was just trying to keep up with Sherlock's long strides.

"How did you know to look in the kitchen?" John said, as he quickened his pace.

"When I saw what Mr. and Mrs. Siney looked like," John recalled a picture of the portly couple one of the many hallways they were led down. "I figured that's where they spend most of their time." John laughed and Sherlock hastened his pace, again, to hide the large smile on his face; John saw it anyway.

"How did you figure out it was the wife?" She said, all but running to catch up with Sherlock.

"Did you notice Mr. Siney's tie?"

"Of course; the thing was awful!"

"Mrs. Siney thought so as well. In fact, it was so out of Mr. Siney's character to own and wear that tie, that it confirmed her suspicions of a mistress. She wouldn't normally have minded, considering she's had a few extramarital affairs herself, but what drove her to blackmail was the fact that it was paid for out of their joint account."

"Ouch."

"How did you know that?" John asked.

"When I was looking through his e-mail, I noticed several bank notifications. Among them was an e-mail asking for a confirmation of purchase of the tie. Mrs. Siney no doubt ordered the inquiry, thinking it was a stolen credit card, initially."

They squeezed back into the cab, which had apparently been told to wait there for them. John had a good idea who Sherlock expected to pay the fee for that.

"The e-mail response time confirmed my theory that the blackmail was the wife's doing. It was much too quick to have been sent by anyone other than someone on the same internet network. She must have hired a private investigator to take the incriminating photos of him and his mistress." Sherlock continued as he situated his long legs comfortably in the cab.

"What good would it do to extort money from her own bank account?" Emma asked. She was struggling to breathe as she fought Sherlock's elbows for cab space. She'd wedged herself between Sherlock and John.

"Partly for revenge, partly to pay for a divorce lawyer; she no doubt set up an offshore bank account to hide the money in."

"Well," Emma said, clapping her hands together. "I'm glad to have my first case under my belt."

Sherlock opened his mouth to correct her, but clamped his mouth shut when he saw the look of warning John shot him over Emma's head.

"Yes, right." was all he said.

Maybe Sherlock wouldn't be so bad at this after all.

Emma was rewarded for her hard work with Chinese take-out. She didn't mention it was her first Chinese meal that didn't come from a trash bin in three years. She was constantly chided by John to slow down. Eating quickly was a habit she'd developed after years of stealing food.

She lay on the couch that night and smiled in the dark. The smell of Chinese and burnt chemicals lingered in the air. In the middle of a trashed living room, feeling what she suspected was a pair of tongs, digging into her side, hearing Sherlock pacing in his room and John snoring softly upstairs; this, this was where she belonged. She'd never been so sure of anything in her life.

She was awoken in the middle of the night by feet quickly padding down the stairs of John's bedroom, past the couch, and into the bathroom. A tub faucet was switched on, but not before she heard the beginning of a quiet sob.

She hesitated with her hand on the bathroom door knob. She slowly opened the door and saw John sitting on the edge of the tub. He looked startled that she'd entered without knocking. She slowly sat down on the tub next to him. His eyes were red puffy, it was obvious he'd been pulling on his hair. She slowly grabbed the hand closest to her with both hands and squeezed, only lightly at first, but more firmly in short bursts. John's chest stilled and his breathing was no longer erratic. He stared at his hand in silence. Emma reached over with one hand and turned off the tub. Hot steam filled the bathroom and John took a deep breath letting his shoulders loosen. Emma had seen her mother use this technique to calm down her father during or after one of his night terrors.

"I'm glad you weren't on the toilet," she finally said, "this would have been much less comforting if you were."

Suddenly, John Watson, ex-soldier, the straight-laced man to Sherlock's crazy, _giggled. _Emma couldn't help but laugh at that.

After a few minutes, she helped John up and led him to the couch. She pushed aside he covers sat him down, and went to start some water boiling. She wandered back out into the living room and took hold of one of his hands again. She turned on the TV and sat next to him. The kettle screamed and John tensed again, but Emma tugged a shoulder of his shirt to bring him back to the living room again. She sat up, poured a cup of tea, and returned to find John sleeping. She set the tea cup on the table and put one of her covers over him.

She looked up to see Sherlock leaning against the wall. He nodded and turned to go back to his room. Emma nodded in return and curled up on one of the armchairs. Sherlock didn't need to say anything. Both of them knew that nod meant "Thank you."


End file.
